


Apophis

by bloodrunsred



Series: Learn the Alphabet with Wade and Peter [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dragons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Kinda, Kings & Queens, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Spideypool Bingo 2019, Stony Bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-15 05:56:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19289533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: Peter is a dragon; a defender, a protector of innocents. He is thought to be evil by the King that sits on his golden throne, the nobles that are fat by the suffering of their own people, and he has long accepted that fact.Wade is not innocent, nor is he truly good. But he's trying, and that's more than most knights could ever claim.





	Apophis

**Author's Note:**

> A is for Apophis.
> 
> Song of the Day: Burn, sung by Phillipa Soo.
> 
> Click [HERE](https://xbloodrunsredx.tumblr.com/) for my tumblr!

_"Fight on, brave knights! Man dies, but glory lives!_

_Fight on; death is better than defeat!_

_Fight on, brave knights, for bright eyes behold your deeds!"_

Walter Scott

 

* * *

 

Neyok is a country with a distinct territory. West of the rivers, ruled by mischievous merfolk, and east to the mountains of Apophis.

It's a place ruled by the rich; the ladies, with their elegant up-dos and glittering diamonds, and the lords with their full bellies and velvet clothes. They're the beautiful, the fair, and yet they're the vainest creatures that Peter has ever had the displeasure of meeting. Well, not meeting--no, dragons are too feared for Peter to get close in his scaly form--but he's seen them. He's seen the village, and the people that live there with their protruding ribs and sunken stomachs, and he knows the game of those with power.

They want to be strong, and they know well how to keep their strength. Through lying, through stealing, through suffering and pain. Not their own; the monsters that sit above the people of Neyok have not gained their power through personal sacrifice, but through the hardship of others.

The hardship of Peter's kind.

Dragons have a reputation that's hard to wash away, even with enchanted water. They're not used to being challenged, and dislike humans cutting down trees and scaring away their food in order to build their villages and palaces. Dragons are well acquainted with materialism; their dens rife with treasure and jewels gifted as sacrifices by the people--from before Neyok had ever been founded--that saw them as gods. 

Peter is a young dragon, though not unknown in his own right.

He is Apophis, the fearsome serpent of the mountains. His false-name had been born in the mouths of frightened children, tales spun of his existence like wool from a sheep's back. It had travelled from the narrow canals of Egypt until it found home and purpose in Neyok. His human form has its advantages, and the stories he has heard on the streets are truly works of art. Masterfully constructed, the imaginings of a slighted dragon punishing the wrong-doers of the kingdom enraptures even Peter.

He has swept through marketplaces in the past, cloak dragging on the dirt floor behind him, and heard parents whisper to their kin.

"If you don't listen to me, the dragon that sits on the mountain will come and steal you away," he heard a plump woman tell her son once after he tried to sneak some fish from her basket. "It doesn't appreciate children that don't listen to their mothers."

Though he hadn't very much appreciated her making him out to be a child-eater, the idea had made him chuckle under the relative safety of his hood. His ability to take to the dusty streets and walk amongst the people as though he is one of them is undeniably his greatest talent. It's a trick, a little secret hidden under scales and horns over a foot long. 

On days like today, it's the only thing keeping him alive.

The woods have been rife with rumours lately, the drunken ramblings of knights and soothsayers alike. Of a single man that's going to be sent to the mountains to slay Apophis and take his treasure for the people. The people, Peter knows, will be the ones who already have money to their names. Not the suffering families who wear ragged clothes that are falling apart at the seams, freezing to death in the winter.

Peter has never been one to freely admit to his fear in any case, but the thought of a single knight having the power to take on a dragon is a bad one. That the Crown would have so much faith in his abilities makes Peter's stomach churn.

That's why he's walking through the village, the skies grey and clouds thick. He's making his way to the palace, his wings bunched up tight beneath his human skin. 

A child tugs at his cloak, his blue eyes wide and his hands palm-up. Peter's own eyes soften at the sight, and he kneels on the hard path. The road is cobbled, wet with melted snow, and a frown twists Peter's face; the child looks like he has been sitting here for a good few hours already, and in these conditions he might already have caught a head-cold. Or something worse and less easy to cure. 

"What do you need, love?" He asks, his accent strong and guttural, though he's speaking as softly as he can. "Money? Clothes?"

His growl and snarl naturally bleeds through into his human-speak, and he tries to make up for how scary he might sound by pressing himself even closer to the floor. The boy only nods, his mouth pressing into a thin line. Peter purses his lips, the action not lost on him. Many of the children he has met have stilted speech; their parents busy working, and a lack of schools everywhere leave them disadvantaged. Poor families more than most.

He offers the boy a reassuring smile, one that doesn't expose his sharpened canines. He unclasps his cloak, catching it before it can pool to the ground and get too wet to be of use. He runs his fingers through his hair, sharp nails shifting brown locks so they fall over his tapered, elfish ears. He bundles it up and hands it over, the cold hardly bothering him as it tries to sting at his nose and lips. He removes one of his necklaces, set with heavy jewels and polished to perfection. 

A treasure that's belonged to his family since the towering woods of today were little more than shrubs and fairies. 

He hesitates for only a moment before that finds itself in the boy's trembling hands as well. It's worth thrice its weight in gold, and the child's eyes almost fall out of his skull when he catches a glimpse of it. His hands are dirty when he reaches for it, fingers trembling from frostbite. He looks like it's about to be ripped from him, and when Peter defies his expectations, he clutches it tight to his chest.

"W-who," his voice is hoarse, struggling to find a solid grip on the common tongue. "Who are you?"

Peter cards his fingers through the boy's curls, allowing his hands to warm just a little. It works well enough, and he relaxes just a little. "I'm the Lord Apophis of the Mountains," he whispers, his pointer finger resting against his lips in the universal gesture of  _please keep my secret._ He doesn't mind either way; it's not like many people will believe him if he does tell. 

Sometimes it's nice to give children a little bit of magic, or mystery.

Thankfully, he seems to understand what Peter is saying, not taking any time to pause and ponder over the syllables before his mouth is dropping open. Peter lets his eyes sharpen, the unnatural gold blending with the brown of his human irises. The boy looks down at the necklace and cloak, before looking back up again. He's not quite afraid; more openly curious and confused. 

The bells of the clock-tower ring out across the village and Peter stands, brushing his knees off. 

He has somewhere to be, after all.

He tries not to look back. He fails. The boy has run off to his mother, waving the necklace and nearly tripping over the fabric that's longer than him, even bundled up as it is. The palace is towards the centre of the town, sectioned off by a large, golden fence and gate. Peter, being naturally drawn to the big, the bold, and the shiny things in life, finds it both beautiful and offensive.

 _That should be yours,_ the dragon in him snarls, teeth gnashing viciously at the very thought of someone having something it doesn't.  _It should be in our den!_

Brushing his instincts aside, even he can recognise what the gate means for everyone else. His more rational brain can see the distance it puts between the Crown and the people, the rich and poor sectioned off by a lovely fantasy. He could almost liken it to a birdcage; though, whoever the birds are in this situation is up in the air. He loses three more pieces of jewellery on his walk there.

Two rings, and a dainty bracelet that had belonged to his Aunt. 

He's different from the other dragons, the ones he had lost so long ago. They hadn't been able to shed their scales or wings, or hide their more telling features. And, even if they had, he doubts they would have even come to see the humans, or care about their despair. Peter's kind has always had four things that they care most about. A list, ordered and taught to hatchlings new from their nests.

Care for your family. Your elders, your siblings, your parents, your children. Family is everything.

Care for your riches. Your gold, your jewels, your silk, your rarities. Without your riches, you have nothing to your name.

Care for your nest. Your land, your mountains, your dens, your waterways. Your home reflects you.

Care for yourself. Don't sacrifice your mind, your body, your soul, your needs for others. Especially if they're not family.

Peter doesn't know why he always betrays himself and his instincts for these people. The ones he had been raised to look down upon, for their damage to the forests in their quests for power, for the way they treat their own families. Peter had been taught that they were lesser, just because they were human. His Aunt and Uncle had tried to raise him differently, to be just a little more accepting, but it's all moot point now.

Peter's the last one now, anyway. He can't not care for the innocent children, and the senile spinsters when they're all he has now. The only connections that don't end in violence or slaughter.

There are guards, and they're too easy to bypass. He could make a show of it; in fact, he's very much tempted to grow larger than the palace itself, roaring in outrage that they would dare,  _dare_ try and plot to kill him. Him, the last of his kind, after the rest were butchered by their hands and swords. After the humans before them treated his kind as gods, they would dare take back their allegiance?

It's nothing short of dishonourable, but Peter is too proud to stoop to their level.

He scales the walls with the grace of a spider, his nails scraping against stone as he climbs in a way that won't automatically alert the humans that linger around the sides of the palace. His body twists, in a way that might have hurt if he wasn't used to contorting in ways much more painful. Some of the wall crumbles beneath his fingertips. The strength of a dragon inside a frail human body is more dangerous than he ever could have expected.

Plus, his curse makes him even stronger, in all the wrong ways.

He's done this enough before to know what to do. For all he knows, this is a false-alert, and it's just the King raising taxes. Maybe putting money on the people who travel through the country, making them pay a fee to do as little as breathe in claimed territory. It's horrible, but it won't hurt Peter. He's all there is guarding his family's treasure, even if he does end up giving some of it away. 

The King already seems to be in the middle of a tense conversation with a hooded man that Peter eyes with interest through a window. The mystery man is clad in red leather armour, something that Peter knows for a fact costs an arm and a leg to make, let alone buy. He's wearing a shoulder-cloak fit for winter, trimmed with black fur that looks like it came from one of the bears that roam the forest. Peter purses his lips at the sight, though he's hardly one to judge; they are one of his main sources of food, after all.

The thing that captures Peter's attention more than the clothes the man is wearing, are the swords strapped to his back.

They cast shadows across the floor as light from the candles hits them, making the man seem more menacing than he probably is. Peter strains to listen to the words they're swapping.

"-pay you handsomely, of course," the King waves a fat hand, his rings glinting obnoxiously in the dim lighting. An attendant scurries to his side, a large, cloth bag cradled in his palms. It jingles when tossed to the armoured man, and he whistles when he takes a peek inside. It piques Peter's curiosity, in that moment, and there's a burning need to know what exactly is in that bag, and why.

Though he already has a very good idea. 

"You mentioned getting to pick something from the treasures, too? I have to admit, I'm dying to get my hands on something a dragon has touched. Or gone near. Honestly, I just love dragons and the cool shit they do. It's just so awesome, you feel me?"

The King clears his throat, looking uncomfortable as he adjusts his collar. "As long as you realise that you're meant to be killing the beast, not ogling it."

And there it is. The proof, the icing on the cake, the undeniable truth that Peter will be hunted. Not by an army, no, but by one man. One single man, who the Crown believes can topple a dragon with little more than swords and greed. He may have his money, but Peter has his tricks. His magic. He has survived this once before, and he can survive it again. He has to.

What more can he do?

"If you say so," the man has a smile that shines through into his voice, even with his face shrouded in shadows. "Though, you must have known that I have a mind of my own when you hired me. You don't survive long, in the more-dishonourable knight business, without a self-serving head on your shoulders."

The King tenses, his fingers drumming nervously against the armrest of his throne. "If you are not willing to kill the beast, Deadpool, then I will find someone else to do it in your stead."

The man, Deadpool, raises his arms in surrender, gloved fingers waggling in what Peter can only describe as a teasing motion. It truly is funny to see the King so agitated--though the portly man must find little comfort in his life that is dependant on that of his poor people and their taxes--and to see him treated as though he is equal to someone. If not equal, than lesser; the vindictive part of Peter takes great joy in that fact.

"I'm good at what I do," he shrugs, his cloak moving with him. "I'm just saying, don't be surprised if I fuck some shit up."

 

*

 

Deadpool is a funny man, Peter finds. He holds conversations with thin air as he trudges through the woods, his gesturing big and childish. It leaves Peter feeling oddly endeared as he tracks the man on his journey, like a mother-dragon watching her brood finally leave the nest. He's still in his human skin, of course; he would be too big and loud to do much of anything as a dragon, aside from burning the man to death.

Unfortunately for Peter, and fortunately for his would-be killer, he thinks murder is something that should be abhorred. Maybe it's just his experiences speaking for him, but the idea of killing a man--who hasn't even done anything to harm him yet--is something he can't bring himself to think about for long.

There's a second reason that's just a bit more tactical and logical than the first. If he kills Deadpool, there will always be a second choice. A group instead of a lone man, an army instead of a group. If he can keep Deadpool on his path, and not kill him in a way that will paint an even larger target on his back, then he'll be safe for just that much longer. Word travels fast, and it will be a matter of days before a replacement is sent.

So he watches.

The treetops offer an interesting perspective, though he still hasn't seen the man's face. It's becoming a struggle not to jump down and just look, and he finds his control melting away like smoke in a breeze as the hours pass. Dragons aren't the most disciplined of creatures, and Peter hates that it's one trait he can't seem to shake, despite his efforts. 

He's agile enough that he can dance from branch to branch, hardly any sound escaping. The leaves don't even move as he does, and it's a feat he's proud of. His dragon croons as well, pleased at how well they're avoiding being caught. There are always mischievous pixies and faeries wandering the forest, but he doesn't think they would tell on him, not even as a joke. They had to stick together, creature and creature. Not enough to be human, but more than animals, they need to protect each other.

Deadpool hums, a wonky tune spilling from his throat into the quiet air. As much as Peter loves the calming hush of the woods, he doesn't mind it. 

It's all he focuses on for a few breathless seconds; the sound genuine and honest, not practised or pretend like other music he has heard before in his life. It feels private, and his concentration slips as he does. He falls onto a thick branch with a sickening  _crack_ that sends birds flying. Surprisingly enough, Deadpool never falters, his humming consistent. Peter thinks that he might have actually gotten away with his mistake when he pipes up, breaking free of his song.

"So, any reason you've been following me around, stranger? I saw you hanging around the palace earlier, too." He asks, tone light and cheery. Peter freezes where he is, not even daring to breathe as an uncomfortable quiet settles over the entire area. He's never hated silence so much. "I can't imagine it's for my looks."

He cocks his head as though waiting for an answer, and Peter wouldn't want to disappoint.

He clambers down, slowly and carefully, with more stiffness in his limbs than there should be. Is it possible that, if Deadpool had known he was there before he even slipped up, that he knows that Peter is the creature he's meant to kill? He hopes not, but even his fear isn't enough to make him stop entirely, or run. He won't freeze for anyone. Not any more.

He can feel Deadpool's eyes tracking his every move before he turns to face the man, his shoulders square and his chin tilted up in a way that screams impudence. Any other knight under the King's authority might strike him. Make him grovel for mercy, interrogating him on why he was in the trees in the first place, but Deadpool just chuckles. It's almost fond, and Peter knows that there's a flush creeping over his cheeks and down his neck, at the sound being directed at him.

He hasn't heard that same sound in a long time. 

It's embarrassment over respect that makes him duck his head, his sharpened canines catching themselves on the fleshy insides of his cheeks. He peers at Deadpool from under his lashes, and tries to make himself seem smaller, previous (false) confidence washed away like it had never existed at all. This man is supposed to be the end of him. The end of his family and their legacy.

Well, Peter would be damned if he let him.

"I apologise," Peter says, dropping into a shallow, borderline rude, bow. "I didn't mean to offend you, sir."

"Bleh," Deadpool makes a disgusted noise in return, and he waves his hands in the air like he's shooing a fly away. "Don't call me sir. I'm Wade, Wilson, Deadpool, or some other particularly hurtful names in the bedroom. And who are you, you delightful little chipmunk? Are you following lil' old me, just so you can rob me blind? If that is what you're planning on doing, just know that I don't consent-"

Peter rears back at the accusation, his nostrils flaring as he struggles to pull himself back together after being insulted in such a way.

"I would never steal from you, or anyone," Peter hisses, his lips threatening to pull back in a snarl. "I am not so dishonourable or cowardly that I would even think of it! How dare you assume that I would!"

Peter is a dragon, and he has great pride in his honour, and the fact that it has even come into question by someone who doesn't know him is shocking. He's used to being used as a joke, or as an example, but he didn't think people actually believed it. Children maybe, but not adults. Even the King has never believed in the lies he spouts, of that Peter is certain.

He's hurt. He shouldn't be, because he doesn't know Deadpool and shouldn't have expected better, but he is all the same.

Deadpool seems taken aback, his entire body seeming to droop in some kind of indescribable emotion. He doesn't say anything for a few moments, and Peter can't help but feel stupid. He's the one that's being rude, and the heat of his anger seems unnatural in the cool air. He lets it bubble in his chest like dragon-fire for just a second more, before he releases it in a deep sigh.

"I didn't mean to call you a liar," Deadpool finally murmurs, lifting his head so Peter can see bright blue eyes. "I meant it as a joke, and I'm really sorry I wasn't more careful about what I say around who. You're not from around here, are you? Is it really rude to call people thieves in your village?And, my good sir, is there anything nicer I can call you instead?"

Peter doesn't hesitate. "Yes. My... village is full of very proud people. To call one a thief would be a very serious accusation, one that could ruin many prospects in their future. I'm sorry for overreacting like I did. It's not your fault. May I ask what you are doing here, in this weather? I don't see people from Central Neyok visit this path very often. And my name is Peter."

In all honesty, he wouldn't know. He normally shifts forms as he travels through the woods, skin melting away into blue and red scales, jaw snapping and rebuilding itself to accommodate more and larger teeth. He can get through them in five minutes, with his hands sprouting claws to hook into the ground, his wings helping him carry himself to safety. To home. 

"That's probably 'cos of the dragon," Deadpool nods, and Peter is still transfixed by his eyes. Most of his face is still cast in shadow, but they shine beautifully, like rare stones, and Peter won't lie and say that he isn't completely captivated. He's always been weak at the knees for beautiful things; it's in his very nature. He snaps out of his haze as he continues talking. "It's the reason I'm here too. I'm meant to  _urrk_ it."

He makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat as he drags his thumb over the front of his throat. 

Oh. Peter had almost forgotten, and he curses himself for allowing something pretty to snatch away his focus. He can't be that person again, he can't let a pretty human distract him from what is good and safe. He needs to mislead the knight, and make sure he doesn't slip up and reveal his horns, or claws to him. "I can take you there," Peter says, his lips moving the bare minimum to hide his sharp teeth. It leaves his accent more pronounced, but there's little he can do to rectify that. "I know a shortcut. To it's nest."

Deadpool grins, and his teeth remind Peter of pearls.

"Care to accompany me, then, lovely?"

Peter wants to hit himself for preening at the compliment, but he can't help himself. The man is abrasive but likeable, and Peter has always loved affection and attention. When he was younger, and had begun noticing things about the world, and his Uncle had congratulated. When he had first managed to hunt for himself, and his Aunt had nuzzled at the underside of his chin with pride. Deadpool--Wade, he had said--is the first person to compliment him in a very long time.

Wade offers his arm, and Peter is almost tempted to take it. As it were, he just starts to walk away in a direction that's just left of his den. Deadpool follows him, chattering all the way.

 

*

 

They walk in silence for almost an hour.

Rather, Peter walks in silence while Wade talks to everything and nothing around them. He coos at butterflies, and blows kisses to spiders (an action that had Peter flushing again), before conversing with the falling snow. Peter lets him, cocking his head occasionally to listen more carefully. He tells stories that Peter suspects are more for his benefit than the wildlife, ones that fascinate Peter more than he thought words possibly could.

The hesitant shine of the sun fades away into darkness soon enough, and Wade sets up a living area for them to stay in. The tent is small; most likely because Wade thought he would be travelling alone, but Peter will be able to manage.

"Why don't you start the fire," Wade suggests in what Peter thinks is perfect irony, shrugging off a bag that had been hidden by his bulk under the cloak. "I should probably go find us something to cook. You do know how to start fires, right?"

Peter could laugh. He has enough control to stop himself from doing that, at least, and just nods. His lips are stretched in a strained smile, and he feels a tickle under his skin that tells him to go and change already, to stop playing along with this charade. It's not like Wade can be lied to for forever, right? Peter isn't that good of a liar, and the knight has already proven that he has remarkable observation skills.

"The animals in this forest are very large," Peter tells him, "even I--even the dragon hunts them. You could be seriously injured if you aren't careful."

He's serious about the animals. They're huge, a single boar satisfying Peter for a single meal, where he would have to take four regular sized ones. The fish are as large as Peter's claws when he fully extends them, and have easily pulled misguided fishermen into their waters. Wade just shrugs, though, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall to the ground.

Peter only gets a quick glimpse of scarred skin and knotted flesh before Wade is pulling a helmet from his satchel. It's rusted, curiously painted as though done by a child with handfuls of red and black paint. It matches the rest of his armour, though it's metal where the rest of it is leather and fabric. Peter can't draw his mind away from the man's skin. It looks so interesting, the lines and cuts weaving a story that Peter is sure would entrance him as much as the others had, and he wants to reach out and touch. 

There is something that stops him from following through, though, something that extends past common decency. It's the fact that there's a wound on Wade's cheek, still red and fresh-looking, that weaves its way through already scarred skin to curl around his ear. Peter's seen that same wound a number of times; dragon-fire, licking at human flesh. It doesn't heal, and it's painful. Even though Peter wonders what he had done to deserve a dragon's rage (and what had happened to the dragon afterwards), he can't help but feel guilty himself. 

The man had been hurt, irreversibly so, by a dragon, and Peter is lying to him. Wade probably thinks that he's safe, and good, and innocent, but that's not the truth. The truth would have him running for the village, or reaching for his swords.

"Be back in a sec!" Wade waggles his fingers, an action that Peter copies hesitantly. He turns on his heel and strides into the forest, before transitioning to skipping. 

Peter releases a deep breath as soon as he's sure that Wade is out of earshot, slumping to sit on a rock near where Wade wants the fire. Wade has already dumped sticks there, so all Peter has to do is light it. To Wade, that would be by striking rocks against each other, or rubbing sticks. For Peter, however, all he has to do is let some of the nervous energy that's collected inside of his body  _out._ He leans forward, and allows himself to give in to his nature, just a little.

His pupils contract, turning to slits, and he can feel his horns trying to press through his skull. His teeth lengthen, his nails growing sharper and sharper as he blows a deep breath at the wood-pile in front of him. The flames catch immediately, the wood crackling pleasantly as Peter tries to bring himself back to the state he had been in before. It's hard to pull himself back to humanity, though, when he feels so free and content with half of each part of him on display. 

Fear isn't a very good motivator, for him, so he focuses on guilt instead.

He lets it grow on him like a weed, stamping down all his reptilian characteristics as it festers. The fire doesn't seem as bright, and he wants to go back. Back when he had only just stumbled from his nest, and his parents hadn't yet taken their last, fatal flight together.

The last of his horns disappear back into his hair by the time Wade comes stumbling out of the woods, bloodied and heaving a massive stag with him. He's limping, though it's soon replaced with a proud and confident walk, and he has several tears in his suit. The only explanation that Peter can see is that he interrupted a predator hunting, and paid the price.

Still, Peter jumps to his feet, running to meet Wade half-way. He takes the stag by the antlers, flinging it somewhere behind him as he focuses on Wade. He can't let him die! He can't let him suffer!

" _Min_ _drageus dievan!"_   He whispers, the language he had been raised with taking precedent, and his fingers hovering over the larger holes in the suit. "You're injured! You will lead the predator back to us, and you will die! Oh,  _min drageus, min molific lode, quen sept tein ma?"_ Maybe he's being childish, directing his questions to his God that demands he seek his own truth, but he can't help it.

"Neat-o, what language is that?" Wade asks, his voice cocky in a way that makes Peter take pause. Why isn't he weaker? More fatigued? "You look so scared! Don't worry your pretty little head about me, baby-boy, predators are a no-go. Look at my skin! I'm healed!"

Peter does take a closer look at his skin, brushing aside how stiff Wade holds himself when he does. He traces his fingers lightly along the blood crusted to his suit and scars, and then harder still. It comes off on his fingers, and there are no wounds. The blood is real, he can smell the metallic tang in the air, but there are no marks that suggest he was ever attacked at all. His skin is still heavily scarred, but it's not the worst that Peter has ever seen.

If anything, it's reassuring. It's always the people who see perfection in themselves that betray others. Self-serving bastards that they are.

"You..." Peter trails off, wondering how he should go about asking. What if it's a personal topic? He guesses that he's owed one personal question after Wade had joked about him being a thief, and proceeds with little abandon. "Why is there blood if you're not injured?"

Wade shrugs.

"Fuck if I know," he says. "Magic is a tricky business, and the man that cursed me had bucket-loads of it. All I know is that dying is not a thing I'm acquainted with. Well, at least not permanently. I did die for, like, two seconds out there, though."

"You  _died?_ "

"For two seconds!"

That's still much too long, but Peter doesn't have the heart to argue with him. He's been injured, and with Peter near him, too! He should have been the one to go out and hunt, not Wade. That hadn't been fair of him, to accept the task of lighting the fire when the woods are so dangerous. The fire is burning nicely behind them, and Peter guides Wade to sit down. 

"You rest, I'll cook," Peter tells him, sternly. "I don't like spices, or extra flavouring, so you'll have to put your own in if you want it."

Peter's a dragon, not a member of the royal family. He hadn't been raised to appreciate extra, more exotic flavours over plain meat. Normally, he wouldn't even cook it; he only does that for resting in deep winter, to settle his stomach and help him sleep. He's never used an actual fire, though, only his own fiery breath. This is probably going to be a challenge, and he hopes he doesn't mess things up enough that Wade will have to step in and help him.

Wade whistles when he catches sight of the stag. It's by the fire, now, even though they had been standing a good few feet away when Peter had tossed it. "Baby-boy, you're holding out on me! Stronger than me, I'll bet. No wonder you're so jacked."

Peter looks down at his arms, still clad with his long-sleeves. He looks back at Wade, and raises an eyebrow. Is he delusional? Given how many times Peter has heard him say the most nonsensical things, the answer is a sound  _maybe._

"Come, now, take your mask off," Peter says, his fingers already poised to remove it himself. Hooked under the bottom, he starts to lift, until Wade stops him with a firm grip on his wrists. 

"No thanks, babe."

Peter wrinkles his nose at the term. He's not a child, and he doesn't appreciate being referred to as one. He lets Wade's mask go, stepping back and saying as much. He's not a babe, nor a baby-boy. Wade looks confused, and Peter wonders how much their different experiences with language impact their ability to communicate. He can't interact properly and respectfully if he doesn't know what Wade is trying to get him to understand.

"I didn't mean babe as in kid," Wade tilts his head, in a way that's familiar to Peter. He does the same thing when he's tasting words on his tongue, deciding which one has the best flavour for certain conversation. "I meant it as in attractive. It's a term I use sometimes to refer to people I would like to know romantically. Or sometimes just to annoy people, 'cos homophobia sucks."

Peter cocks his head, considering the explanation.

"I won't call you it if it makes you uncomfortable," Wade tacks on.

"You think I am... attractive?" Peter asks, trying to clarify alongside deciding how he feels about it. "Sexually? Romantically?"

Wade chokes, and Peter is very much inclined to take that as a yes. 

His dragon croons, and Peter is two seconds away from joining it. It's flattering, it's sweet, and Wade isn't an unimpressive man. He's tall, muscular, funny, and he hasn't tried to kill Peter yet. Of course, when he finally figures everything out, that will change in a split-second. He squashes those feelings down, the ones that insist he lets Wade know that he reciprocates. 

He can't respond in kind, because he's not a human and he can't connect with one again. 

He just nods, not saying anything more. He won't do anything with Wade, but that doesn't mean he has to stop receiving compliments.

"Anyway..." Wade clears his throat. "Let's play a game!" Peter stoops to poke at the stag, but waves a hand at Wade to let him know that he's listening. He normally loves games, but it seems a little sudden after Wade's strange, romantic-esque nickname revelation. "It's the one where I ask a question and then you answer it, and then you ask me a question and I answer it!"

Peter needs a knife to cut bits of the animal off. "I need a knife. And how do I win the game?"

Wade pulls out a knife, and then a rock after a moment of deliberation. He starts to sharpen it, and then starts to talk. "It's not a winning-losing game, you know? It's just one where you can get answers if you want them, or just get to know someone better. If you  _really_ want, the person to answer the most questions can get something off the other. Fair?"

"Yeah," Peter says. "Yeah, sure."

He takes a seat in the snow, trying to decide what he's going to take from Wade when he wins. He's thinking about taking his mask. He wants to see his face, and his eyes again. They're pretty, he thinks.             

"I'll go first! What does the dragon look like?" Wade asks, eyeing Peter with child-like curiosity. "Have you seen it?"

"That's two questions," Peter picks at his fingers, his nails scraping at his cuticles. "But I have. It has mostly blue scales, but there's red around it's arms, legs, stomach, and head. It has scales in the shape of a spider on it's chest, and long, black horns. It-"

"A spider?" Wade sounds shocked, and Peter shoots him an irritated look for interrupting him. "What do you mean, a  _spider?_ "

"It's my turn," Peter tells him. "You just had yours!" Wade pouts, but flaps his hands in a 'go ahead' motion. Peter needs to think for a moment, about what kind of question he even wants to ask. He decides to jump in head first. May as well keep with the dragon thing for a while, right? "Why are you listening to the King, and going--going dragon hunting?"

Wade shrugs. "Money. I also have a sketchy history with dragons, so there is that. My turn!" He's still sharpening the knife, and Peter is fixated on the occasional flying sparks. "What were you doing sneaking around by the palace?"

Peter chews at his bottom lip, covering his face with his hand. "Can I not answer? Please?"

"Just as long as you know you're losing! Your turn."

Peter nods, grateful. "Why won't you take your mask off?" Wade pauses in his motions, before continuing.

"Pass. My turn! Is that caused by the dragon in you?" Wade gestures at Peter's eyes with the knife he's sharpening, his eyes flickering up once. "The gold in your eyes, I mean."

Peter stills for one horrible, horrible moment. "What do you mean?" He asks after a beat, his blood running cold at what Wade is implying--no, not even implying. Downright saying. "I don't know what you're talking about." He can't stop now. He can't stop his lying, he can't let this go yet. He can't, he can't, he  _can't._

"I'm not an idiot, Peter," he says, hs voice bland and emotionless. Peter wonders if, just maybe, he went too far when asking about his mask. "There are stories all throughout the village, of a foreigner with gold and treasures. The foreigner always tells the children that he is the Lord of the Mountains. He has brown hair, and brown eyes that turn gold. He-"

Peter gives in immediately.

"Stop," His voice is shaking, his hands clenched into tight fists by his side. His claws are elongating, digging into the flesh of his palms. "Don't you dare stand there, don't you dare talk to me in that tone, like I didn't have a reason to mislead you! You told me you were sent to kill me, like you were bragging about it. Don't lie to me, and say you wouldn't have slaughtered me as I slept if you had known!"

Wade quietens, for perhaps the first time since Peter has known him.  

"Please don't say I should have trusted you," Peter pleads with him, hot tears welling up in his eyes. He hadn't wanted to give this up so soon, whatever it had been. "Please don't say I should have told you, or that I should have done anything different. I've already made every mistake, I've--I've already gotten my family killed because of my dumb decisions, and I didn't want myself to be added to the list."

The tears spill over, and he tries to blink them away. He can't look at Wade, though, and see the disgust bloom in his eyes as he realises exactly what Peter is. A murderer, an idiot, a beast. Everything he had been trying to claim he wasn't, and here he is; admitting to it like it isn't a death sentence. Wade moves forward, and Peter sees the flash of a sword. 

He inhales, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Pain never comes, and he cracks an eye open. He sees the swords--katanas, Wade had called them--lying, abandoned, in the snow before Wade is holding him. His arms are a gentle barrier, not aggressive, but something that is protecting Peter from the rest of the world. And Peter feels protected. It's been years and years since anyone has ever tried to touch him in a way that doesn't end with his head on the floor, and he melts into it.

He sobs into the crook of Wade's neck, his mouth open as he chokes on words of thanks, of protest. 

He's a liar, one that doesn't deserve to held so tenderly. He shouldn't allow this human to strip away the last of his defences, but it feels like he doesn't have a choice. His body won't listen to reason, and his heart has cracked open, oozing with the need for any kind of affection. He's at war with himself, and he never would have had to confront it if not for Wade.

"Tell me what happened," Wade urges, not pulling away. "Tell me what they did to you and your family, Peter."

So Peter tells him.

He struggles to form the words in a tongue that Wade will understand, but he manages to tell his tale. He tells it from the beginning, when his parents had been alive and well, and had gone flying only to be shot down by human soldiers with a new kind of weaponry no-one had ever seen before. He mentions the witch of the woods, how she had promised him and his remaining kin safety.

He tells Wade of leaving, and using his new-found power to go to the village, where he had met a beautiful boy. The boy had been sweet, his eyes a deep green, with dark hair. Peter told Wade about how he trusted the boy, and had told him his secret, and everything about his family. He told Wade about the bloodshed he had returned to the next morning, of the bodies scattered, and the charred remains of human knights. Of the boy shunning him when he returned to the village in tears, looking for answers and an explanation.

He tells him about how his family had been robbed of their scales, and wings, and horns, for trophies in the King's palace. How he fears his own will find a place there too.

Wade just rubs his back soothingly throughout his spiel, never growing mad as he butchers English almost beyond recognition, his grasp on anything human disappearing alongside his dignity. Peter tries to calm down, and Wade pulls away to look him in the face.

"I'll help you take him down," Wade says, his eyes terribly beseeching. They're so earnest that Peter has to look away, lest he fall for the human's charms. It wouldn't be the first time he had been tricked, and he wouldn't be making the same mistake. Not when he had lost something so precious to him the last time. "He wronged you and, I'll set him straight and have him tried for his offence."

Peter can't be hearing him right. What human would sell out his own kind for a dragon? Dragons are rumoured to be liars and cheats, apprentices under the God of Lies himself. And though there's little merit to the whispers of the street, most people believe it. There's no reason for Wade to trust him, or believe him; not when his king has fostered dislike and distrust between their species for as long as Peter has been alive.

"You believe me?" Peter could start crying again. "You don't think I'm a monster, or a liar, or-"

 "No," Wade says. "Of course I believe you! I don't know much about you, Petey, but I've heard things from every kid in the village, and they love you! You've helped so many families, and I swear, I was never going to kill you. I promise."

Peter doesn't want to believe him, but he can't help himself.

 

*

 

The next day, they walk through the forest in amiable silence, until Wade breaks the slow-growing tension with practised ease. "Why a spider? Like, I get that you're supposed to be weird and mystical or whatever, but they're so gross and scary. You're so cute and fluffy and, what I meant to say was, what's up with the spider thing?"

"Spiders are creators," Peter says, his smile faltering just a little. "My kind is separate from  the strongest creatures known to man, your people. I was... a little luckier than most, I will admit. I've heard legends of dragons being thought to be the ones who created the Earth, weaving it together using our strength and magic. We are creatures of patience, of creativity and dedication. I'm the only one who ever had its symbol, though. Probably because of the witch-"

"Gasp, are we curse buddies?" Wade jokes, nudging at Peter's ribs before turning serious again. "What happened to the others? Why were they hunted down in the first time, even with that little prick you mentioned?" He asks, his tone deep and rumbling. It reminds Peter of shifting rocks, and he decides that he likes it. "What happened to your home?"

"It was just a spider-witch," Peter rolls his eyes. "She wanted me to have a gift, she called it. Some gift. And have you ever walked through a spider-web, Wade?" Peter asks him in, shaking his head to himself when he doesn't receive an answer right away. "It's the same thing as that. We made our home, and others destroyed it. They saw us as lesser, and they didn't care what happened to us. My home is fine, now, but my family is gone. It's like that saying I always hear getting thrown around, you know? That family makes a home."

Wade kicks aimlessly at the snow, his armour sewn up and his satchel slung over his shoulder.

"You know, I wouldn't mind if you turned into a dragon for a while," Wade tells him. "I'm not really one to judge, and you look like you're tired. If you need to, feel free. Don't mind me, I'll just be there. Standing, maybe sitting. Probably checking you out. I don't know, man, just don't feel like you have to put up walls around me."

"Later," Peter says, a smile tugging at his lips until he's grinning widely. His canines are on display, and Wade hardly reacts. "I'll take you flying. We can go get some fish."

"Really?" Wade thrums, clapping his hands with glee that he doesn't even try to hide. It's sweet, and Peter feels himself wanting to see more of it. It's getting too similar to before, though, and he pulls himself back. "Wow! My God, I never though that you would ever--or any dragon--would let me! Wow!"

Peter just laughs, dragging his growing claws along the bark of nearby trees. "Wade, can I ask you something? I know we're not playing a game anymore, but I think that I need to know. Please."

Wade sighs, and Peter just wishes that he could see under that damn hood. Wade has long abandoned his mask to his bag, and had done so while Peter slept. He wants to see his face for more reasons than to satisfy his damn curiosity; he just needs to see Wade's thoughts on his face, see if there are any tells that he's not being genuine, for any reason.

Peter feels like Icarus, from the story of the boy who had flown too close to the sun. If Peter's wings dripped from his body like wax, and he was sent plummeting, he would only want one thing in return. Like how Icarus had gotten his brief taste of freedom, Peter just wants a small piece of truth. He just doesn't want to be lied to, or tricked, or lulled into a state where he can be betrayed. 

"Hit me with it."

Peter steadies himself for a deep breath, one that has a heat building in the back of his throat. "You said that you had history with dragons. Why would you tell me that, if... if you didn't-"

"Didn't want to kill you? That's fair to want to know." Wade scoffs, looking down at the ground. "It's true. When I was younger, I was apart of an official army. Knighted, the whole nine-yards... I was good at it, but I was better at getting drunk, and creating a bad reputation for the Crown as a whole. So, I was exiled. I got a lot of injuries from taking sketchy jobs, mostly involving dragons."

Peter hesitates, wanting to ask for more, but not wanting to be rude. Wade seems to understand the way he folds his arms over his middle, and continues talking.

"They were bad, Peter, trust me. I had seen them kill children with my own eyes, razing entire cities and raiding farms. They were menaces, and I only took the jobs because I truly believed that. Before I came to see the King, I believed that about you too. Then I did some digging, and talked to people, and I found out that you weren't actually a bad guy, and that you had never done anything to hurt anyone."

"So you didn't just kill them for being dragons?" Peter asks, his voice small, even to him. "You swear?"

Wade nudges him, offering him a smile that Peter can barely see. "I swear." At least Peter can hear the smile entangling itself in his voice. "Can I ask you something too?" When Peter nods, he continues: "Why are we still going to the mountains? Now that you know that I know, there's no reason, right? It's your home, and I wouldn't want to intrude."

"I'm taking you," Peter says, "because you're going to pick something to take. One of my treasures. That's why you wanted this job, right? You deserve it for-"

"For what?" Wade seems upset, and Peter's brow furrows. That's not what he had intended to happen. "For not killing you? Pete, babe, that's not something I need to be rewarded for."

"You deserve treasure."

Peter has made his mind up. He needs to visit home anyway, and find more things to give away, or just to bask in the memories that he associates with the place. In all honesty, he doesn't have many good reasons to go back aside from history.

"You're the only treasure I would ever need."

Peter can feel the blush spreading over his cheekbones, and hates the fact that Wade sounds so honest.

 

*

 

He takes Wade flying.

In fact, he flies them the rest of the way, soaring over the lake and trees, doing a few ambitious spins in order to amuse the man. He catches a glimpse of himself in the lake, his snout long, his teeth sharp. Past the monster, he can see something new and hopeful blossoming in his eyes, and he can only let himself realise one fact.

One simple, simple fact.

In the day and a bit that he's known Wade, he's grown smitten. Maybe it's because he's forgotten what it feels like to be wanted by someone, or because he's a dragon and more likely to project his longing for family on anyone willing to take the position, he doesn't know. All he does know is that Wade cares. He listens, he laughs at Peter's jokes, and he doesn't try and hurt him. He doesn't insist on stealing the gold on Peter's person, or getting a reward.

All he wants is trust, and all Peter wants is to give it to him.

The lizard part of his brain tells him not to, though, warning him from making a new kind of mistake. He doesn't let the guilt grow again, though, instead focusing on how happy he makes Wade sound. He doesn't know how he looks, still, but he thinks he might look happy too. He hopes so. He feels stupid, sometimes, that he's so happy in everything he does, when he can't see what Wade looks like. He worries that he might be making a fool of himself in front of someone he's so keen on impressing.

The mountains, when they finally reach them, aren't something he's proud of. They're barren, no grass growing and the air thin and cold. He tries to, for a moment, imagine what Wade sees without sentiment clouding his vision, but soon gives up the idea. It hurts to think about, that Wade might only see it for what it is. Not what it has been, or what it means. 

They're in his den when Peter finally speaks up. "Wade," he worries he might be asking too much again, but he pushes it aside. "I know we haven't known each other for long--but I really would like to see your face. I've let you see both of mine, and I promise I have no wish or need to judge you. I just want to see you. Please."

Gold glints in every corner of the cave, and Peter refuses to let himself be distracted from his goal. He allows his features to meld and shift until he looks more like a demon than any sort of respectable human, and prays that the action is enough. He makes himself stand still under Wade's stare, the careful thinking evident in the man's every move. 

After many minutes tick by, Wade finally brings gloved hands up to his mask and hood, removing them inch by inch until he's standing there, surrounded by Peter's treasure. Maybe it's just the riches that litter the cave, but Wade looks strangely lovely and unique, with rubies reflected in his eyes, and his skin that tells stories more valuable than the scrolls in his possession.

"I've always wanted stuff like from here," Wade murmurs, not looking Peter in the eye. "But now that I'm here... I don't want to take from you."

"It's not taking if it's freely given," Peter tells him, his smile faltering only slightly. "Trust me. I know the difference."

In the end, Wade chooses a hand-held mirror, one encrusted with sapphires that match his eyes. Peter hopes that it helps him see himself for what he is.

Nothing less than precious.

 

*

 

When they return for him, the King puts up a fuss, his face flushing a deep purple not unlike the robes he wears. The following fight is one that Peter will not soon forget, an army against a cursed man and a dragon. There is blood shed, and tears spilled, suffering abound in the town. Throughout the chaos, Peter makes sure to look out for the innocents; the town-people, the children, women, working-men. The ones that don't deserve to be caught in the crossfire.

Spears find themselves lodged in his soft underbelly, swords flung through the air only to be batted away by him or Wade, who is still bare-faced and breathing heavily. 

For all his injuries, for all the dead, and for all the pain, they win.

They win, and they tear down the palace gate. There's no need for separation anymore, no need for anyone to be locked away from the riches they deserve. Peter doesn't bring his treasures from the Mountain, and they collect dust there. 

It's alright; maybe another knight will find his love through seeking it out. For now, Peter is happy.

He and Wade are happy.

 

*

 

_The End._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was a good start for collection for my bingo card! This is the second time one of my Spideypool fics starts with Wade wanting to kill the love of his life smh. Please keep in mind that I'm Australian, and I'm not always quite sure when July 1 is for the rest of the world!
> 
> The prompt was 'Knights and Dragons'.
> 
> A few notes: Peter's origin story is very much the 'Uncle Ben died because of something he did whilst being irresponsible' but on a larger scale. The dragon-side of him (Apophis) is more of his mundane alter-ego; the one that's not a secret, while being human (Peter) is his spidey-side. My writing for this was a bit more elegant (I think) because I was trying to reflect the kind of world I was writing about--let me know if it worked!
> 
> Translation for my made-up dragon-language:
> 
> Min drageus dievan = My dragon god
> 
> min drageus, min molific lode, quen sept tein ma? = oh my dragon, my merciful lord, why must you do this to me?


End file.
